did not answer; his eyes were roving round the apartment. On a bamboo table was an old vase which had been clumsily filled with golden chrysanthemums, of a peculiarly beautiful variety. Not all, for amidst them flowered a large Michaelmas daisy that had the forlorn appearance of a parvenu that had strayed by mistake into noble company.
‘You’re fond of flowers?’ he murmured.
She looked at the vase indifferently.
‘Yes, I like flowers,’ she said. ‘The girl put them in there.’ Then: ‘Do you think they will hang him?’
The brutality of the question, put without hesitation, pained Reeder.
‘It is a very serious charge,’ he said. And then: ‘Have you a photograph of Mr. Green?’
She frowned.
‘Yes; do you want it?’
He nodded.
She had hardly left the room before he was at the bamboo table and had lifted out the flowers. As he had seen through the glass, they were roughly tied with a piece of string. He examined the ends, and here again his first observation had been correct: none of these flowers had been cut; they had been plucked bodily from their stalks. Beneath the string was the paper which had been first wrapped about the stalks. It was a page torn from a notebook; he could see the red lines, but the pencilled writing was indecipherable.
As her foot sounded on the stairs, he replaced the flowers in the vase, and when she came in he was looking through the window into the street.
‘Thank you,’ he said, as he took the photograph from her.
It bore an affectionate inscription on the back.
‘You’re married, he tells me, madam?’
‘Yes, I am married, and practically divorced,’ she said shortly.
‘Have you been living here long?’
‘About three months,’ she answered. ‘It was his wish that I should live here.’
He looked at the photograph again.
‘Do you know Constable Burnett?’
He saw a dull flush come to her face and die away again.
‘Yes, I know the sloppy fool!’ she said viciously. And then, realising that she had been surprised into an expression which was not altogether ladylike, she went on, in a softer tone: ‘Mr. Burnett is rather sentimental, and I don’t like sentimental people, especially – well, you understand, Mr.—’
‘Reeder,’ murmured that gentleman.
‘You understand, Mr. Reeder, that when a girl is engaged and in my position, those kind of attentions are not very welcome.’
Reeder was looking at her keenly. Of her sorrow and distress there could be no doubt. On the subject of the human emotions, and the ravages they make upon the human countenance, Mr. Reeder was almost as great an authority as Mantegazza.
‘On your birthday,’ he said. ‘How very sad! You were born on the seventeenth of October. You are English, of course?’
‘Yes, I’m English,’ she said shortly. ‘I was born in Walworth-in Wallington. I once lived in Walworth.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twentythree,’ she answered.
Mr. Reeder took off his glasses and polished them on a large silk handkerchief.
‘The whole thing is inexpressibly sad,’ he said. ‘I am glad to have had the opportunity of speaking with you, young lady. I sympathise with you very deeply.’
And in this unsatisfactory way he took his departure.
She closed the door on him, saw him stop in the middle of the path and pick up something from a border bed, and wondered, frowning, why this middle-aged man had picked up the horseshoe she had thrown through the window the night before. Into Mr. Reeder’s tail pocket went this piece of rusted steel and then he continued his thoughtful way to the nursery gardens, for he had a few questions to ask.
The men of Section 10 were parading for duty when Mr. Reeder came timidly into the charge room and produced his credentials to the inspector in charge.
‘Oh, yes, Mr. Reeder,’ said that officer affably. ‘We have had a note from the P.P.’s office, and I think I had the pleasure of working with you on that big slush [Slush-forged Bank of England notes.] case a few years ago. Now what can I do for you?… Burnett? Yes, he’s here.’
He called the man’s name and a young and goodlooking officer stepped from the ranks.
‘He’s the man who discovered the murder-he’s marked for promotion,’ said the inspector. ‘Burnett, this gentleman is from the Public Prosecutor’s office and he wants a little talk with you. Better use my office, Mr. Reeder.’
The young policeman saluted and followed the shuffling figure into the privacy of the inspector’s office. He was a confident young man: already his name and portrait had appeared in the newspapers, the hint of promotion had become almost an accomplished fact, and before his eyes was the prospect of a supreme achievement.
‘They tell me that you are something of a poet, officer,’ said Mr. Reeder.
Burnett blushed.
‘Why, yes, sir. I write a bit,’ he confessed.
‘Love poems, yes?’ asked the other gently. ‘One finds time in the nighter-for such fancies. And there is no inspiration like-er-love, officer.’
Burnett’s face was crimson.
‘I’ve done a bit of writing in the night, sir,’ he said, ‘though I’ve never neglected my duty.’
‘Naturally,’ murmured Mr. Reeder. ‘You have a poetical mind. It was a poetical thought to pluck flowers in the middle of the night-’
‘The nurseryman told me I could take any flowers I wanted,’ Burnett interrupted hastily. ‘I did nothing wrong.
Reeder inclined his head in agreement.
‘That I know. You picked the flowers in the dark-by the way, you inadvertently included a Michaelmas daisy with your chrysanthemums-tied up your little poem to them and left them on the doorstep with-er-a horseshoe. I wondered what had become of that horseshoe.’
‘I threw them up on to her-to the lady’s windowsill,’ corrected the uncomfortable young man. ‘As a matter of fact, the idea didn’t occur to me until I had passed the house-’
Mr. Reeder’s face was thrust forward.
‘This is what I want to confirm,’ he said softly. ‘The idea of leaving the flowers did not occur to you until you had passed her house? The horseshoe suggested the thought? Then you went back, picked the flowers, tied them up with the little poem you had already written, and tossed them up to her window-we need not mention the lady’s name.’
Constable Burnett’s face was a study.
‘I don’t know how you guessed that, but it is a fact. If I’ve done anything wrong-’
‘It is never wrong to be in love,’ said Mr. J.G. Reeder soberly. ‘Love is a very beautiful experience-I have frequently read about it.’
Miss Magda Grayne had dressed to go out for the afternoon and was putting on her hat, when she saw the queer man who had called so early that morning, walking up the tessellated path. Behind him she recognised a detective engaged in the case. The servant was out; nobody could be admitted except by herself. She walked quickly behind the dressing-table into the bay of the window and glanced up and down the road. Yes, there was the taxicab which usually accompanies such visitations, and, standing by the driver, another man, obviously a ‘busy.’